Her Recollections
by Throughtherye
Summary: He spared her once. Now she is left to deal with her guilt for her past and fear for their intertwined future.
1. All Great and Precious Things are Lonely

**Hi everybody! This is my first story on this website. Hope you like it! Thanks for reading, please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers**

_"The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared." -Lois Lowry, The Giver_

Her Recollections

She crouched silently, waiting for him above the dark catwalk. Fury had told her he was coming her way, and she had to face him.

But she was frightened.

She knew that he wouldn't recognize her, despite their years together. His eyes would be a cold blue instead of the solid grey. His mind and body would not be the same.

But still, she waited.

Soon enough, she heard his footsteps coming down the catwalk. Her well-trained ears knew his exact gait, and she looked down to see the top of his head moving towards her. He passed under her, and she was assailed by his sharp, clean scent. Clint. A part of her was in outrage that she would use his real name. But another part of her relished the feeling of his name on her tongue. She waited patiently for an opening, and then she leaped down and landed without a sound on the catwalk, immediately falling in step behind him.

As they walked in unison, she remembered.

_She huddled in the dingy, cold warehouse. Fear held her in its icy grip. Her breath came out in loud gasps. Too loud, she felt. Far too loud, for a fugitive trying to stay hidden._

_She chewed constantly on her lip, her eyes darting around the blackness. She tried in vain to wet her tongue, but the moisture vanished as soon as she could conjure it. Her ears strained to pick up anything, anything at all, in the dry stillness._

_It was a mark of how well he had been trained that she did not hear him approach. When he coughed deliberately, she whipped around, her nerves on fire. His walk was steady, calculated. He wore all black, and strapped to his back was a sheath of deadly arrows. He fingered the bow in his hand and held it to him with a practiced air. The look was clear in his sharp eyes. He was going to kill her, and there was nothing she could do. She found herself praying that the death would be quick._

She had just enough time to throw up her arms to block his strike with the bow. Cursing her inattentiveness, she shoved into him with her body. His fist passed over her head as she ducked and kneed him in the stomach. He fell back, and a fury of punches came her way. Every move of his, she countered, and every move of hers, he matched with a block. They spun around and around, moving all about the catwalk, trying to find where the other was weakest. They danced in the dim light, and again, against her will, her mind dove into the deep sea of memories...

_It was a large, grand ballroom. The chandeliers glittered like magnificent clusters of fireflies. Women dressed in luxurious fabrics circled the floor with their partners as the orchestra played a soft, inciting waltz. The marble floor was gleaming, as was the marble bannister she leaned over. She looked out onto the floor, her eyes registering every guest, every exit, everything she had been trained to watch for. She stroked the silky white gloves she had donned for the occasion. After all, it was a very special mission. She turned to see him walk up and lean over the bannister as well, his elbow brushing hers. He looked handsome, in a tailored dress suit, and she was surprised to see he did not look at all uncomfortable. Then again, this was his job, she thought bitterly. To appear as someone else entirely. To hide behind a mask. Embarrassing memories welled up inside of her, memories of her trying to make more of their relationship than there actually was. Which was ridiculous, as his attachment to her was strictly professional... At least, each convinced themselves of it. A girl can hope, can't she? She thought. A second later, she cursed herself for being so weak, and for being a woman, though she would deny it, very much in love._

With a gasp, her mind returned, just in time to receive a harsh slam in the chest. She stumbled back, gulping for air. After regaining her balance, she flew at him, her mind going on autopilot. Kick, dodge, punch, roll, again. She leaped at his head, but he ducked at the last minute, and she soared over him. She rolled up on to one knee, then dove at his feet and swept his legs out from under him with all her might. He fell backwards, turned over, and with a resounding smack, his forehead collided with the metal railing of the catwalk.

He staggered around, blinking wildly. His eyes fell on her. Pure, straightforward, grey eyes. His real eyes.

"Tasha?" he choked out. His real voice. Her chest constricted, an invisible fist squeezed her heart. They almost never used first names, let alone nicknames; the two of them were too professional for that. His broken voice echoed in her mind...

_Her sharp fingernails dug into her palms. Her mind was on overdrive, so she was able to ignore the pain. This mission is impossible, she thought. _**He**_ is impossible. She stood rigidly, looking out into the grey mountains, sucking in the scorching air. Cold enveloped her, snapping at her exposed skin, turning her face red and raw. She was so accustomed to his presence that she knew he was behind her without having to turn around. He made no sound and didn't move, but she could feel his eyes boring in to the back of her head. She remained in her position, and didn't acknowledge him. Then she felt his hands on her shoulders. His quiet voice filled her ear._

_"Tasha, everything will be fine, we'll be okay, we'll get out of this," his voice trailed off, still speaking words of what he defined as comfort. She payed no attention and acted as though she couldn't hear him, but she could. A single tear fell down her wind-ravaged cheek._

She had stopped breathing, and had to remind herself to take in air. For a second her eyes searched his dazed face. Then, with a swift kick to the head, he fell. She made no noise.

But in her tainted soul, she cried.


	2. He Would Make a Lovely Corpse

**Thank you for the input! Here's chapter two, enjoy! Disclaimer: I don't own avengers**

_"I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others-young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life." - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby  
_

She was a patient woman.

She had to be, it was vital for her job, for her way of life.

But as she stood in the shadowy corner of the room, she was suddenly anxious. Since she had called Fury to have someone come down to help her, the man who was her foe and partner had not stirred in the slightest. His head had lolled as they carried him away to a medical room, and there was no movement behind his translucent eyelids.

In the small room, she would dart from her corner to his side at random intervals. Her fingers would brush his wrists, searching, probing for a pulse. She had to make sure that he was alive, that she hadn't done the unthinkable, and killed him with one deadly stroke. Her fingers would linger on his hand, and she would allow herself to lightly caress his rough, calloused palms. He didn't respond, but lay there like a forgotten corpse upon the bed. The nurses must have made certain that he was alive, otherwise they would not have restrained his arms in such a way.

But still, she worried.

She focused on keeping her breathing soft and steady. It seemed like days had passed to her when he finally woke. His eyes flashed around the dark room, taking in the smallest details. She froze and waited for him to look at her. His gaze seemed almost reluctant when he finally turned to her.

"How do you feel?" she asked. Inwardly, she winced at how curt and cold she sounded. Why couldn't she be kind and gentle, like a woman should be? But her face did not betray her emotions, and remained a blank mask.

"I have a hell of a headache," he said, groaning and blinking rapidly. As he tried to sit up, he realized that he was restrained to the bed. His muscles rippled as he struggled against the straps. He looked imploringly at her. She didn't move from her corner. There was a heavy silence in the room.

"Tasha," he said quietly. Again, she was surprised at his use of her true name. "Tasha, please...I'm safe... you're safe... I won't hurt you, I swear."His voice turned to a whisper at his last words.

She swallowed hard and licked her lips. She didn't speak as she moved into the light. Her daft fingers untied the straps for him, and he quickly sat up and massaged his arms to get his blood flowing. She avoided his eyes. She retreated back to the shadows, afraid that her pitching emotions would leak out and show on her face. He filled a glass with water, but didn't drink from it. He stared into its depths instead. The look on his face was that of a man drowning in sorrow.

"Drink," she commanded him. He didn't look up, but took a small sip from the glass. He placed the glass down and leaned forward off the bed to put his head in his hands. Hunched over, he looked pensive and defeated. She glanced away, feeling as though she was intruding on something private, something intimate. She shouldn't see him like this. So broken, so vulnerable. It did not become a master assassin who was trained to never show his feelings. She steeled herself to speak.

"Clint." This time her voice was soft and gentle. "Clint..." She indulged in his first name as well. Her voice trailed off.

"How many agents did I kill, Natasha? How many?" He finally looked up at her and she was startled to see his eyes filled with rare tears.

"No, Clint," Quickly, she went to his side and sat next to him on the bed. Her hand floated around his body as she tried to decide if she wanted to touch him, to comfort him, if he would even let her. But she was ashamed to see her hand drop back down to her side. She spoke instead. "It wasn't you. It was all Loki. Don't do this to yourself."

"What should I do, then?" he yelled, his temper flying in a second, his eyes turning red with unchecked rage. "Act like it never happened? Act like I didn't kill innocent people, like I didn't betray you and the rest of the people in this damned outfit? Give myself the excuse that I was only 'acting on orders'? Act like, like you?"

His last words hung in the air like poisonous gas, clouding over her mind, controlling it.

_The corpses at her feet stared up at her with wide, full eyes. Eyes as deep and desolate as war trenches, eyes as black as a night with no stars and no moon, eyes burdened with the shell of a body filled with nothingness. Their faces were so expressive in death, more so than they ever had been in life. Or perhaps that was just the belief of their murderer. Perhaps others would look at their faces and see, quite simply, dead men. But not she. She looked at them, and all of her oppressed feelings exploded, washing her body in fiery, unbearable emotion. They had lives ahead of them. Families, friends, lovers, lives with meaning, lives with feeling. Had they really needed to die? Or was it too soon for them, she wondered in a kind of painful awe as she looked down at their young faces. Their young, expressive faces. But what could she do now? They were gone, she could not bring them back, revive them from their endless sleep and set them on their way, back to their families, friends, and lovers. No, she could do nothing now, except stow away their faces in the back of her rotting soul. Her empty soul. Her blood-filled soul..._

She froze. She collected herself. Unbidden, Loki's threats reappeared in her mind. The way he had goaded her about Clint actually frightened her. But he was right. Clint knew her past. He knew her overwhelming guilt that she had shoved deep into the recesses of her soul. He knew all of her most secluded weaknesses. He could kill her in a way that would torture both her body and her mind.

He seemed to calm down after a while. Every now and then he would glance at her solitary figure.

"I'm sorry," he said in gentle tones. "That wasn't fair. I didn't mean it. I was just upset." She felt her eyes widen minutely at every word, but still her surprise was not evident and her face remained impassive. She allowed him to grasp her hand with one of his own. It was almost a sweet gesture, yet her mind still catalogued how tense and stiff his hand felt. He gave her a small squeeze, and she indicated all was forgiven with a small squeeze back.

But still, despite how much she cared for him, despite how much she trusted him, she watched him.

** Thanks for reading, guys! I'm wondering, should I follow them through the battle, or skip to the end where i have a bit more freedom with the plot...What do you think?**


	3. All Rational Creatures Fear the Dark

**Hey guys! Here's the next chapter. I really appreciate all of your reviews! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own avengers**

_"We live as we dream-alone..." -Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness_

_"A man that flies from his fear may find that he has only taken a short cut to meet it." - J.R.R. Tolkien  
_

Ground. Strong, stable ground. Smoke. Flames rising in the hazy distance. Screams. Cries of fear. Too loud, too close.

Filth.

Blood.

Desolated streets.

Bodies.

Bodies piled high in massive mountains of screaming flesh.

His is the most recent addition.

He still lives. His breathing is ragged and harsh. He lays on his back, eyes shut to the raging battle. Red liquid pools beneath him. Bullet wounds decorate his chest. Every now and then he coughs, horrible, terrifying coughs.

He will be gone soon.

But not soon enough.

She has to watch him, watch as his body convulses in agonizing pain. He does not cry out. His body is too weak to generate any noise. She tries to reach him. If she cannot heal him, she will put an end to his torture.

But she cannot reach him. Obstacles appear out of the oblivion, with snarling faces and deadly weapons.

But a part of her... A part of her does not want to reach him. Because she knows it is her fault he lies there, suffering in amazing amounts of pain. She knows that she will not be able to look at his face without screaming, without weeping, without collapsing, without shattering. She knows. And so she allows herself to be delayed.

But the rest of her is in disgust that she is so selfish and cruel. These two parts fight inside of her, oblivious to the surrounding battle.

Finally, she is by his side.

For the second time in her life, she does not know what to do. She stands over him, with the wind and smoke assaulting her mercilessly.

He shudders again, as though he feels her icy presence beside him.

Suddenly, his eyes flash open. Electric blue eyes. He lunges forward and grabs her ankle. His grip is iron and she cannot break free. The ground rumbles. The mountain of corpses begins to crumble, burying her. She cries out, but her voice is gone. The last thing she sees are his electric blue eyes, scorching her soul, reducing her to ashes...

Her screams echoed through the cavernous hallways, seeping through locked doors and polluting the hushed rooms. The occupants of the many rooms winced in discomfort. But they didn't leave to search for the source of the noise.

They were not hard-hearted or indifferent people. They did feel compassion and kindness. They simply knew there was nothing they could do. After all, this was a normal occurrence after wars with such heavy losses. Though they did not like it, they grew accustomed to it. They never did seek out the person who screamed, offering words of comfort and warmth. They did not want to see these professional agents hunched over in dark rooms, broken, sobbing and panting, eyes dilated with fear.

So they waited, pitying the poor creature that cried out in her nightmares from a distance.

He did not go to her, either.

He was trapped in his own troubled mind, clawing at the walls as the ceiling collapsed, crushing him, suffocating him.

When she wakes, she is tangled in her sheets. She is drenched in cold sweat, breathing heavily as she throws herself out of bed.

When she was younger, just beginning in her line of work, her nightmares mingled with her waking hours constantly. She thought that she was going mad when her dead enemies started appearing around her when she was awake.

Perhaps she did go mad.

Perhaps she never woke up from those nightmares.

Perhaps this, all of this, was happening in her mind.

And that frightened her.

Not because she was confined in her own mind.

No, it was not that that made her so sad and so scared.

It was because if she was mad, he, a figment of her damned guilty conscience, would not be there, would not exist when she woke up.

And she knew now that she would die without him.

This made her angry, having to depend on someone, having her life intertwined with his.

And so she managed to convince herself that she was not mad, that he was real, and that he would not die, not while she was still breathing.

With this knowledge, she went back to bed. But she did not escape the nightmares. These were old nightmares, though. It was almost comfortable to revisit that awful night.

_She padded down the hallway in her slippers and thin dressing gown. Light bled underneath the door at the end. He was still up, working in his study. She eased the door open and slid inside._

_"Papa?" she asked in lilting English. They spoke in many languages in the house, but English was the one she preferred. Russian was too harsh for her childish tongue; French too romantic._

_As she stepped further into the room, she realized with embarrassment that two strangers were there with her father. She blushed accordingly and looked down at the threadbare carpet._

_"What is it, my child?" her father also indulged in English to suit her. Her senses detected the badly suppressed panic in his voice, but she didn't understand it. He was sitting erectly in his white armchair, the two men standing over by the window. She was too young to observe the way they leaned towards her father unpleasantly, too young to notice the bulges at their sides where their tailored jackets concealed guns, too young to distinguish the dozens of fierce scars decorating their faces._

_"I could not sleep," she mumbled, still looking down. Had she been looking at her father instead, she would have seen his eyes dart to the leering men at the window, she would have seen one of them gently brush aside his jacket to reveal a polished revolver handle and shake his head._

_"Go to bed, little girl," said the older of the two men in a rough, accented voice. She turned her eyes to her father, who nodded slightly. Her body comprehended the seriousness of the situation and began to shake. She backed out of the room slowly, her breathing fast. She shut the door with a soft click and turned to walk down the hallway._

_The telltale crack of a gunshot rang out through the house. She ran back into the study to find the dead man slumped in the blood-splattered armchair, the two men stowing away their weapons and adjusting their hats and coats._

_"Farewell, little one," he tipped his hat to her and gestured to the man beside him._

_When she woke the next morning, the police were there, along with the coroner. A white sheet covered her father. The matronly housekeeper stroked her hair and murmured consoling words._

_She did not know what to do._

_And so she weeped._


	4. Trust Takes Years to Build

**Hey everybody, next chapter up. Reviews appreciated, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer. I don't own avengers**

_"To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved" - George MacDonald_

She wasn't exactly a sentimental person.

She rejected nostalgia; she scoffed at the human's attachment to material things.

Yet there were places and times when she had to remind herself to stop, to think, to look around, to enjoy life. Because she had been trained, essentially, to never be human. And the rebellious part of her decided that it wasn't all that bad, acting like a normal human being every once in a while. Stopping for a coffee at the local cafe. Taking a jog around the little park in town. Falling in love with a nice guy, starting a family. There were times that she could convince herself, too. Times where she could just look around her.

And then reality collided with her harshly. She would never go out with friends to see a movie. She would never jog around a park without first analyzing all the people, escape routes, potential threats. She would never settle down with the man she loved, never feel the intense joy of being a mother holding her newborn child, never be able to sit in a rocking chair on an old porch holding hands with her soul mate, surrounded by beautiful grandchildren.

But each time after reality's decimating attack, she would pick up the pieces and start back over again.

She was starting over again as she walked through the woods of the extensive grounds of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. In nature, she almost felt at ease, and there was definitely something calming about her quiet, soft surroundings. Golden light trickled through the towering trees, making her feel as though she was walking among clouds. Pockets of carefree blue sky appeared in the canopy, with chirping creatures cutting across as they flew from tree to tree. Here she felt weightless and breathless. Her troubles were still present, but they were buried the deepest when she was out in nature. The trees stretched endlessly in all directions. It was hard to believe that civilization existed not too far away from this haven.

The others had been wise not to follow her into the woods. She had felt Fury's unyielding gaze on her neck as she left, but she did not turn around to meet it. Instead, she walked resolutely into the trees, and once the forest had swallowed her, she ran. She did not run fast, for she did not want to miss the ever-changing beauty around her. Perhaps this was another thing she liked about nature. Unlike her past, the woods were always changing, always becoming more breathtaking; whenever she looked back at her life, her actions only became more ugly and bloody. But here, here she could be at peace.

So she should have known that she wasn't the only lost soul to take refuge here.

They had not spoken since the Avengers had dispersed. A naive part of her thought that they would still be close partners after the battle. But after what he had gone through, it came as no surprise that he was even more distant and closed off than before. She wasn't one to talk, though. She had unconsciously been avoiding anywhere they might meet. Perhaps she dreaded seeing that other side of him, because it was always there, underneath the surface. But she also knew she trusted him, and that her trust was not easy to gain.

_She had derived from his conversations with the garbled voice of his earpiece that they were driving to some sort of headquarters. She decided that he only spared her because she would be needed for questioning by his organization. She was mentally preparing herself for the torture that would ensue after she would decline answers to their many questions. She was huddled in the back of the dark van with a man dressed in black standing over her. They had inconveniently restrained her, with her arms connected to the ceiling of the van. The man with the deadly bow and arrows sat across from her, looking out from behind the drivers seat to observe the road. She could easily tell that he was the superior agent in the vehicle. He was not restricted to menial tasks like guarding the prisoner or navigating the treacherous roads, but instead he had delegated them. _

_Suddenly, he tensed. She could hear it as well, and soon the other agent was looking for orders from their leader and the driver's knuckles were white against the steering wheel. The faint roaring of another engine. The woods were black in the deep nighttime; they could only hear it, not see it. She swallowed hard. She knew the other van was there for her. To kill her before she caved to her captors and valuable information spilled from her tongue, or to take her back in and confine her more carefully than before. _

_The leader nodded, and the agent took a high tech rifle off the rack on the wall. The archer prepared his bow with an arrow that glowed. She was moved away from the back doors and dumped behind the passengers seat._

_Another nod from the archer. In one swift movement, the agent threw open the doors. Gunfire began immediately, but the archer aimed carefully before letting loose the glowing arrow. The van behind them erupted in flames as soon as the arrow pierced it. The occupants of the van cried out and flung themselves from the flaming vehicle, scattering as they hit the ground and pulling out weapons from under their black clothes. As the gunfire continued, the van she was in suddenly lurched violently, throwing out the three passengers. The archer rolled up on his feet and let arrows fly in every direction. Wherever he aimed, the gunfire would cease. _

_She kept her head down, and bullets flew over her as her two captors tumbled around behind trees to avoid them. She struggled with her bonds and was quickly free, as the binding had become loose when they fell out of the van. She quickly liberated her legs, and then she was on her feet, dashing behind a tree while the bullets flew everywhere. She tried to catch her breath, pressed up against the tree as if it she were melting into the bark. _

_There was a rush of movement near her tree, but the woods were so dark that even her keen eyes could only make out the outlines of two people, struggling at her feet._

_"Run," one of them choked out, and it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She stumbled back, and by now she recognized the coarse voice as belonging to the archer. Her legs bent quickly and obediently, but suddenly the woods were illuminated by a flare shooting up high into the blackness. _

_She made the mistake of looking down, and saw his body turned up to her, with extraordinary grey eyes set deep in his pale face. Without thinking, she threw herself down upon his opponent, and in less than a minute, they had knocked him unconscious against the thick tree. _

_Only much later did she wonder why on earth she had helped him, why she hadn't simply run away into the woods. After all, she had been running her whole life. Why stop now just because a stranger's face was illuminated in the darkness?_

_As she sat in the bright conference room, not even chained to the chair, talking civilly with a man in an eye patch, it hit her. _

_Those eyes. _

_They were the exact same color as her fathers._


	5. And Only Seconds to Destroy

**Helloo! Next chapter, please review! Thanks and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own avengers**

_"A true friend stabs you in the front"- Oscar Wilde_

She wondered whether she should speak to him or not.

He seemed so at peace, with his back against one of the thick-trunked trees, eyes closed. He didn't look like he wanted to be disturbed, and he wasn't speaking to her yet, even though he knew she was there. She bit her lip and watched the wind tousle his short hair.

She resolved to stand off to the side, waiting for him to acknowledge her. If he didn't, she would seek out another tree in the forest, and be just a little bit relieved. Each conversation with him was so loaded with emotion and meaning, she didn't think her mind could handle another.

But she still stayed. She stayed with him, just like the first time they met. She was just beginning to think about sitting down in the dirt and leaves, when he heaved a loud sigh. After years of getting to understand his complex body language, she knew this indicated that she could speak. She was starting to think that this was a bad idea and she didn't really want to speak anymore, for fear of what he might say, but the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"Why are you avoiding me, Clint?" her voice sounded like thunder in the silence of the trees, shaking the ground and sky. His eyes opened. She noted with dread that they were stormy grey today. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

"I've been avoiding you?" his steely voice was incredulous. She winced. "I think it's the other way around, Tasha." She was ready now to turn and walk away, but instead she held her ground.

"Clint. Do you think anyone blames you for what you did? Do you think I see you now as what you were under Loki's influence? Do you really think that? Because if you do think that, you don't really know me at all. Because I don't blame you in the slightest. If I had been the one guarding the Tesseract that night, if I had been the one possessed by Loki, I wouldn't feel guilty for actions I was forced against my will to make."

Her last words were just enough to ignite his fiery temper, which was bubbling so close to the surface these days. He was on his feet in an instant, his face suddenly inches away from hers.

"Of course you wouldn't feel guilty," he snapped, his voice biting. "You never feel anything. You don't even have emotions, do you? You don't feel happiness or sadness...or love..." He stumbled over last words, speaking them too low for her to hear. But his temper flew up again. "At least I have feelings and actually show them! But you, your own parents would die and you wouldn't even shed a tear!"

It was as if he had slapped her across the face. He had no way of knowing how deeply he had cut with the mention of her parents. He didn't know about her childhood, and later she knew that she should not have lashed out at him like she did. It had not been his fault, but still, she was in a rage.

"How dare you say that to me, to _me_!" she screamed, unwelcome tears in danger of spilling over and racing down her cheeks. "I've felt more in a single day than you'll ever feel in your whole damn lifetime! You know, for an 'all-seeing hawk' you're pretty blind to people's feelings!" She spit at him.

She couldn't tell that his heart beat faster; she couldn't tell that he unconsciously understood her meaning. She stood, fists clenched, breathing heavily, her eyes drinking in his existence. His face was blank, hiding the tumult and madness happening inside his head.

Every once in a while, there are timeless moments. The earth stops spinning, and you are struck by the sudden lack of movement. The air becomes all at once thick and suffocating, but also sweet and delicate. Immediately, your feelings rush in like the tide, overpowering your judgment, your logic, your entire body. You feel like you are floating off of the ground, you know that you have no control over what will happen.

You simply drift.

And sometimes, another person ends up drifting with you.

She had never felt like this before, she had never not been in control of her own body. So it's like she is in a dream when she moves towards him, her arms and legs moving agonizingly slow as the thick air presses in on her.

This is instinct, she reminds herself. Just go along with it. This needs no conscious thought. This is part of being human.

His eyes are wide, but also wary. The battle between two sides of her being, the logic and the suppressed emotion, is also raging in his head. She knows he feels what she does, too.

The kiss is not intense, it is not passionate, it is not lustful, it is neither frantic nor fervid.

It is as all first kisses should be. Sweet and sure, pure and loving. Full of all of the denied feelings, full of the yearning to love someone and the joy and awe of finding someone who loved you.

Her mind and body went completely numb.

Her whole self seemed to exist just for this one kiss.

And so she was disoriented and horribly confused when it ended.

In these timeless pauses, the experience is unlike any other in the whole world.

But like everything else on this earth, it must come to an end. Sometimes it drifts closed, and you are left pleasantly flustered. But other times you are shut out abruptly, and you feel as though you have been dropped, headfirst, from the highest cloud in heaven.

It is a cruel end to such a moment, but an end, nevertheless.

She blinked perhaps a thousand times, waiting, waiting for anything.

His footsteps made no noise as he walked past her, back up the way she came.

The tears were sour and unrelenting. But at least, she thought, at least no one is here to see me cry. Perhaps it is better like this, she thought.

She was a professional liar. She had to be if she needed to convince herself to keep going. She just had to be.

If she hadn't been, the skeletons in the closet would have buried her a long time ago.

**Hooray for character development! Wow, that one was a doozy. Please review!**


	6. Great is the Guilt of an Unnecessary War

**Hey, sorry for the late update. Please Review! Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers**

_"Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it's not because they enjoy solitude. It's because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them." -Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper_

_"How we need another soul to cling to." -Sylvia Plath_

She didn't know what was wrong with her.

She used to be able to tolerate the bloody deaths of people she knew, people she trusted. She used to be so strong, so durable.

But now, now she had shattered. It was as if that single kiss had been the proverbial nail in her coffin. It had finished her. She could no longer cope. Which was ironic, because, in her view, a kiss was nothing like seeing a comrade die before your eyes. Or maybe it was an even more potent poison. She didn't know. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.

She rarely left her living quarters. Most of the day, she wandered around her rooms, touching once-familiar objects, eyes dazed and confused. She never turned the lights on, but preferred to drift in the darkness. The dark made it easier for her to get some sort of grasp on her rambling mind.

She had fallen apart.

There were no other words for her condition. The others in the building distanced themselves from her. Food would appear at her door at the proper times during the day, but when she did eat, she pushed the food down her throat in a sort of grim bewilderment.

She hadn't spoken to another human being in a long time. The outer world ambled farther and farther away. Soon, it would be beyond her grasp.

Her weakened logic floundered around in the emptied caverns of her brain. What was wrong, what was right, these questions and more took refuge from the cloying cloud of bemusement that hung over her mind.

With a growing feeling of dread, he approached her door. He had lost count of the days she had spent in her rooms. Fury had told him to let her be, to give her some space, but he wasn't sure that was the best tactic. He could only imagine the pain she was going through. And it only made it worse that he knew he was the cause of her pain.

He was an incredible fool. He knew nothing, he was a weakling, he was a feeble human being. He didn't deserve to love someone as breathtaking and lovely as her, and she didn't deserve to be treated the way he treated her.

He could still feel her soft, supple lips on his; he could still see her face shining in the half-light, the color of a soft pink sunset.

The surge of emotion when they kissed had overwhelmed all of his senses and jarred him enough to make him pull away from her.

The look in her eyes when he pulled back changed him. It was as though she had opened a tiny window into her vast labyrinth of a soul, and he could see her hopes, her fears, her guilt, her desire. Everything was laid out for him to see.

Perhaps it was this moment of vulnerability that made him walk away. Because he knew she could see straight into his soul as well. And there were some things he wanted to stay with him, things that needed to stay with him and him alone, things no one else should see. So he left.

But how, he pondered as he stood before the plain black door, how would he ever be able to explain all this to her? He could barely tell her he loved her more than anything in the entire world; how could he possibly explain to her why he abruptly broke off their first kiss and walked away without a word, even though he wanted nothing more than to kiss her again?

They needed Natasha back now, and he had to talk to her. Now he was just stalling, still studying the door. A tentative knock. Another, this time firmer. There came only silence from the room beyond. He tried the door and the knob turned without resistance. He stepped inside, eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden darkness, a deep shock from the brightly lit corridors of the headquarters.

The windows across from the door were opened, letting in a dry, crisp, nighttime breeze and overlooking the dark woods in the distance. He had been in her rooms many times before, and was able to navigate successfully through the blurry outlines of the black, sleek furniture place in the living room. There was no sign of her. No sign of any sort of habitation, really. But she always kept her rooms in immaculate order, a practice that reflected her personality.

He considered calling out to her, but he felt like he was invading a deeply personal crevice in her mind, and he didn't want to disturb the stillness any more than he was already. He would just look around for her, then.

He didn't know what to expect. But what he saw was more frightening and heartbreaking than he ever could have imagined.

She stood at the furthest window, gazing out at the world behind the tinted glass. Her once vibrant red hair had wilted like a pretty flower abandoned in the dark with no sunlight. Her face was no longer peaches and cream, but rather an almost deathly shade of white. She was thin, her bones protruding where bones would not on any healthy person. Her eyes were not rimmed with red, but her pupils dominated the glassy orbs, giving her a haunting look.

"Tasha?" he said, daring to break the hush over the room. He swallowed hard when she turned and looked him full in the face.

"Clint," she acknowledged in a fragile voice. She walked over to another window and peered out, as if she was hoping the view had changed. He cast around his mind for words, any words.

"I...I...Director Fury, he needs to talk to you," the ugly words fell flat on the ground between them. He licked his lips and waited for her to respond.

"Now?" she murmured, still contemplating the night sky. He blinked a few times as the stale air of the room attacked his eyes.

"No, tomorrow if you would like," he tossed out. After all, Fury hadn't specified when. And he expected she would want to prepare herself before confronting these people who were now virtually strangers to her.

She nodded slightly. She looked as though she was made of vapor, so insubstantial and thin was her skin.

He knew he should have lingered with her, and perhaps he could have explained himself to her. But he knew he couldn't sufficiently communicate his jumble of emotion, especially in the oppressive silence in the room.

So he left her in the blackness for the second time.

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	7. Reflection Makes Men Cowards

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"_In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong." – Charles Dickens, Great Expectations_

"_Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt."- William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure_

The once familiar corridors twisted before her, taking her to that old conference room where she first met Director Fury.

She walked slowly, trying to steady herself and get her bearings. She didn't encounter anyone else while she walked, but she attributed this to the early hour at which she left her rooms.

The bright, industrial lights blinded her when she left the seclusion. She stood in the doorway, shading her eyes, before setting off to the conference room.

She advanced into the silent space, the uneasiness tangible to everyone there. Director Fury lounged at the head of the long table, rifling through a thick file in his hand. He was the only one who seemed to be untouched by the uncomfortable atmosphere. Agent Hill stood in the corner, examining a file as well, most likely the same one as Fury's.

He sat at the other end of the table, staring resolutely at the gleaming tabletop. He didn't look up when she took her seat, he didn't move when she collected a file to read off of the table. He hadn't even looked at the file yet. He found himself half hoping that the mission would be given to some other agents, or better yet, aborted.

But still, the four of them gathered in the room to assess the situation.

"Agent Romanoff," Fury remarked, eyes still trained on the classified document before him. She made no response, but kept her eyes on the papers in front of her. "Glad you could make it," he continued, the irony thinly veiled in his voice. "How was your vacation?" He looked up at her.

"Exceptional," she said finally. She could see Clint out of the corner of her eye clench his fists on the table. Agent Hill coughed loudly, and the edginess in the room thickened.

"Good, good," Fury mused, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands over his stomach. "Now that everyone's here, I'd like to address the current predicament we have here," He studied everyone in the room, one at a time. He tossed the file onto the table and then resumed his original position.

"A potential security threat," Agent Hill said. "It's happened in the past, of course..." Natasha was almost suffocated by the immediate spike of uncomfortable awareness in the room. Agent Hill hurried on. "But never a case of this magnitude. It's someone at the top this time. Someone with access to the most top-secret documents. "

"Do we have any leads? Any at all?" Natasha asked, as the report hadn't mentioned any suspects.

"Several," Fury said, sitting up and putting his elbows on the table and interlacing his fingers. "But we need the proof to take them down. That's where you come in."

Clint bit his lip and stole one glance at her. She sat erectly, intently reading the particulars of the mission.

"So, it's all settled. The Presidential Gala. You'll both be there, and so will they. Technology can only go so far, so you'll be our eyes and ears."

"I don't understand," Clint finally spoke. "How will we be able to get any evidence at a party?"

"You seemed to get plenty of information from the suspect at our last _party_ together," Her retort made him flush an angry pink.

"_I was doing my job,"_ he hissed, incensed. She stood and slammed her hands on the white table, her eyes on fire.

"Is that the only way you'll ever show any affection? If it's part of _your job?_" She jeered as tears began to gather in her eyes.

"Don't," he said, his voice dangerous. "Don't turn this into a conversation about us."

"Us?" she cried. "There is no _us. _And besides, if I ever wanted to talk about it, or if you ever wanted to, I don't know, _apologize, _YOU would just walk away, like a coward!" The words hurried out of her mouth and fell on the floor in an unsightly heap. She stood there, breathing heavily, and then seemed to calm down for just a minute.

"Director, please send any further information to my room for me to go through," she breathed. Fury looked at her in his calculating way, and Agent Hill's eyebrows had disappeared under her bangs.

"Are you sure you'll be able to take this mission, Agent Romanoff?" Fury said, all hints of sarcasm gone from his voice. She nodded curtly, then left quickly through the white door.

Agent Hill gathered her papers and left as well, rather hurriedly. Clint didn't move, but still sat staring at the same spot in the table.

"Agent Barton," Fury addressed him. "Will _you_ be able to carry on with this mission?"

He looked up and saw the Director looking down at him with his one eye narrowed, as if gauging his top agent's emotions.

"I'll be fine," Clint answered. _I'll always be fine_, he thought bitterly.

_They talked gaily for along time, veiled in the shadows as dusk fell over the courtyard. The other guests were still inside, and snatches of music floated outside to the pair, as they looked wistfully at one another. Soon their talking died down and they waltzed, her dress rustling across the leaves and flowers strewn on the cobbled ground. The waltz turned intimate and tender. They felt as though they had been lovers for eternity, not just mere hours. _

_The embraces and kisses were long and ardent, as the both of them expressed their enchantment with the other. _

_The quiet settled pleasantly over the courtyard and she laid her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his strong arms around her, protecting her. _

_They resumed talking, this time punctuated with long silences in which she sat up and gazed into his eyes, dreaming, hoping. _

_Is it right to do this? This question bubbled and bothered under his earnest and attentive face. She, at least, could sense no agitation in his honeyed words and kisses, but the agitation was pounding in his brain nonetheless. Is it wrong to lead her on, just for the information stored unknowingly in her dear head? Of course it is, he thought furiously, but then he reminded himself of his job, of the many people who would be saved by the information he gathered this night. If only he could ask Natasha… but she was God knows where, probably dancing with the handsomest man in the ballroom. The sight of her in another man's arm broke his carefully arranged charade, and a flash of fury passed over his face. But when she twisted in his arms to look up at him once more, his mask was back on._

_To her, his questions were simply different, and were not cause for any alarm. She didn't mind the near constant talk of her family and childhood. Her only concern was that when they talked, she could not reach up to kiss him more._

_Natasha had a mask of her own on that night. Her hectic emotions and intense anguish had to be concealed behind her pretty face. She found herself wishing it was her wrapped up in his arms, instead of that gorgeous fool of a girl,and she saw in her mind's eye a scene of herself waltzing with him and folding into his embrace. _

_She had to use every ounce of her strength to fight her tears as she heard the pair of lovers whisper and kiss through the miniscule listening device inserted in her ear._


	8. Closer to the Past than the Present

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_"The suspense: the fearful, acute suspense: of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance; the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety __to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections of endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them!" - Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

_"Self abandoned, relaxed and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, I felt the torrent come; to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength." -Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre _

"Marcus Rent," She read to herself. "Top S.H.E.I.L.D. Operative, was on active duty for ten years, then was appointed as a chairman on the board, been there ever since...He's hosting the Gala this year, should be easier to search his offices with all the guests..."

"Do you know him?" Clint's curt voice broke through her train of thought. They were in the first class cabin on the plane to Washington D.C. She sat at the window seat, watching the clouds swirl around them, while his eyes flitted around the space, examining passengers. They sat stiffly apart, the tension of their last conversation weighing heavily on the already claustrophobic atmosphere.

"I've seen him around base, but I've never actually talked to him," she replied in the friendliest tone she could conjure. She flipped a page in the fashion magazine that concealed the case file. "What about you?"

"Was on a mission with him once," he said. She looked up, surprised. "Didn't like him. Cocky. Arrogant. Too young." She nodded and absently turned another page, but her mind was at work. Would this be the sort of man to betray his country? she wondered.

They lapsed into a tense silence. The flight attendant passed by a few times, offering refreshments and blankets. Natasha bristled at the woman's unnecessary smiles and gestures towards her partner, and tried not to feel too pleased when he waved her off without a second look.

Natasha continued through her magazine, but this time she knew something was bothering her. A nagging sensation in the back of her head. Something wasn't right. She glanced over at him. His eyes were still scanning the cabin, but more urgently than before. He felt it too.

The thick Russian accent carried over to their seats.

She looked up on instinct, her mind naturally attuned to the distinct accent of her native language. She swallowed hard, as if to convince herself that it was completely normal for Russian nationals to be on the same plane as her. Of course she was overreacting, of course he was only a normal passenger.

This had to be a coincidence. But just to be sure, she needed to look. She needed to turn around; she needed to face this man so that she could truthfully say she did not know him at all.

As she began to twist in her seat, a hand shot out to restrain her.

His eyes held a warning, and she froze.

Don't do anything rash, he communicated silently.

She turned in her seat slowly, naturally, feigning a stretch and a yawn. She didn't recognize the pale face sitting three seats behind them in the aisle, and relief washed through her.

She resumed reading.

Then a softly spoken word murmured into his concealed earpiece assaulted her ears.

"Romanoff."

Fear coursed through her body, consuming her. And it was no longer an irrational fear. No, the threat was very real.

The two agents had ensured that they would be in the seats closest to the emergency exit, in case of a dilemma like this. But they had to wait. They couldn't leave unless the other man provoked them into action. So they waited.

Clint drummed his fingers on the armrest, his brooding expression in place. Caution would be necessary in this delicate situation. Her eyes were frozen on the pages of the magazine as she strained to hear any other words spoken.

There was a rustling behind her, and she fought the urge to turn around and look. The movement came closer. The tall Russian edged through the aisle, apologizing profusely whenever he bumped into the other passengers or the flight attendants. He stumbled and pushed Clint's elbow off of the armrest.

Clint looked up, and his eyes narrowed. She clutched his other arm, her nails digging into his jacket.

"Pardon me," the man said thickly. His eyes flashed up at Natasha for a fraction of a second. A cruel smile lit his face. Then the tense moment had passed. The man moved on down the aisle and shut the door to the bathroom, and Clint stood up immediately, pulling Natasha up with him.

A whispered conversation with the flight attendant granted them the ability to move towards the exit. A bang resounded throughout the cabin, and the Russian man had the door of the bathroom open and a shining gun in his hand. The passengers began to scream, and Clint and Natasha went for their own weapons.

"Quiet," the Russian said, smiling. The cabin immediately fell silent. "Now, put your hands above your heads, and don't talk. Don't touch that gun, Agent Romanoff, or I will blow off both of your heads, starting with your charming companion."

She swallowed and laced her fingers behind her head, and Clint mimicked the action.

Her strike was as fast as lightening, knocking the man back into the seats behind him. His gun went off, causing the passengers to shriek and scramble out of their seats, flocking towards the exit.

Meanwhile, Clint rushed to the pilot's cabin and demanded an emergency landing. The plane plunged and Natasha was thrown backwards, tumbling over a flight attendant's cart. She needed to disarm the man, before he killed them all.

She launched herself at the man, and they grappled on the floor as the plane steadily descended. She smacked him hard in the face, and he groaned loudly. She wrestled the gun from his hand and quickly sat up, pointing the weapon in his face.

"Clint," she called, cursing her shaky voice. "It's under control."

After the plane had landed, the Russian was handed over to S.H.I.E.L.D. agents waiting at the airport. Clint found Natasha sitting outside of the airport after he went to the baggage claim. She was alone on an old bench, watching the thundering traffic pass by.

He settled next to her, dropping their bags on the ground. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

He cast his eyes about while thinking of something to say. People rushed about on the sidewalk, not even glancing at the couple.

"Are you okay?" He asked lamely. She looked up at him sharply.

"I'm fine," Her standard answer slipped out before she could stop it. He sighed and looked away.

"No, you're not," He muttered under his breath, too low for her to hear. But he did not continue talking, and they walked off in silence into the bustling city.

_Guilt engulfed his soul. He pretended that he could not see the redness around her eyes from where she had been crying. He pretended he could not see the gouges in her palms where her fingernails had been digging. He pretended that she was not devastated, that he was not responsible for her immense pain. But he was like a man stranded in the deep sea of emotion, with no food or water. Words and communication were meant to be his savior, his ship that would take him to the shore. But there were no ships on the horizon, and he was helpless._

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	9. Fear Cuts Deeper Than Swords

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_"I lie to myself all the time, but I never believe me." - S.E. Hinton, The Outsiders_

_"My imagination will get me a passport to hell one day." - John Steinbeck, East of Eden_

The raging hot water was soothing against her feverish skin.

The shower was calming, relaxing even. It allowed her to let go, without fear of what others saw. She could allow her jumble of emotions to leak onto her face, knowing that no one would be able to see her in this place of rare sanctuary. She would melt into the water and her mind would drift, without her having to keep her thoughts in check. The one time she could almost be at peace, or at least the loosest definition of peace.

She tried to turn her thoughts away from the man in the adjoining hotel room; she tried to block out the vision of the rustling dress bag hanging in her closet. She didn't need to think of those things right now. She needed to relax.

And yet, her mind still returned to what was happening outside of her small, dysfunctional haven. She couldn't control it, her mind had to focus on the mission at hand. She had to concentrate on it. It was in her nature to do so.

She stepped gingerly out of the shower and wrapped a soft, luxurious towel securely around her. She could stall no longer. With a pale hand, she wiped the condensation away on the large mirror. Her reflection looked smoky and insubstantial through the smear across the surface. Her hand lingered, brushing the reflection of her colorless cheeks. Her eyes seemed overlarge and misty, her face faded and drawn. Her fingers traveled up the mirror and rested on her wet, defeated hair. She remembered when she had cut it in an awful panic, so many years ago.

_Her frantic fingers struggled to adequately grasp the thin, rusty scissors. The blood, the blood was matted into her hair, it was staining her once beautiful tresses, racing up her scalp. It would soon spread through her whole body, like an effective poison. Somehow, she had to stop it. She breathed in ragged pants, her pupils like saucers in the dim light of the room. She was soon hyperventilating as she raised her severely shaking hand before her. The blood, she had to cleanse herself of it, now. The soft red feathers floated down at her feet, and she continued to cut and saw with bright tears glowing in her eyes..._

She snatched her hand back as if burned. She took deep breaths and closed her eyes, allowing the hot steam in the bathroom to seep through her every pore. There was a quiet knock at the door, and she could hear his even breaths. She must have made some noise of pain or surprise, perhaps both, or he wouldn't be outside the door.

"I'm fine," she murmured, wondering when she would ever tell anyone the truth. She heard his steps retreat out of the room, and she turned her back to the mirror while steading her breathing.

The dress was a sheer, black creature with a plunging neckline. She caressed it and stroked the fine material. Her deft fingers arranged her hair, and she fastened a small diamond necklace beguilingly around her swan-like neck. After applying simple makeup to her eyes and cheeks, she slipped into the dress. It felt strange and foreign to her, and her body rejected the restraint that the dress gave. But she still hooked her shiny black heels on to her feet, and left her room. She walked to his room, knocking delicately.

To say that she looked stunning would be an understatement, he noted immediately when he opened the door. Her eyes were framed by thick lashes, her cheeks glowing from the pink blush. She looked exquisite in the thin black dress that draped perfectly over her lithe and lean figure.

He would never say anything like that, of course. It made him angry, but he could only nod at her when she walked into his hotel room, looking like a beautiful angel bound to earth. He noticed the precious gem around her throat and could not help but wonder. Where did she get such a treasure as that? Was it, perhaps, an heirloom passed down to her from the relatives she never once mentioned to him or to anyone else? Or was it simply all part of the deception, another prop in her grand performance?

But he would never know, because he would never ask.

So he offered her his arm, and it gave him a forbidden thrill to feel her pressing into him, so close...

The hallway seemed longer with her fixed on his arm. He became aware of his every breath, of every whisper of her steps. He blinked wildly and walked slowly, as if in an impossible dream.

To say that reality is unjust and unforgiving would be a foolish oversight.

It is neither just nor unjust, neither forgiving nor unforgiving. It is simply truthful. And if the truth is brutal and harsh, so be it.

In his vicious imagination, she hung on his arm with all the beauty, grace, and love of the world. In his mind, she was devoted to him, and he to her. In his mind, they were passionately in love, and would be so until the day they died.

But when he opened his eyes wider, he could see that it was not so, and never would be so. She did not love him; rather, she was merely tolerant of him, and that was all that was true of his delusions.

He was startled to feel the phantom pains in his chest as he dreamed. In a sad awe, he realized that the aches were radiating from where his heart should have been.

But his heart had been ripped from him a long time ago, and he was left with the frustrating aches of longing in his empty breast and the delusions of a man choking on childish dreams.


	10. Loved in Spite of Ourselves

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_"I am good, but not an angel. I do sin, but I am not the devil. I am just a small girl in a big world trying to find someone to love." - Marilyn Monroe_

_"What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov_

_"For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul." - Judy Garland_

The target, Marcus Rent, would not be present at the Gala. He was overseas, participating in discussions with foreign countries. But he had graciously offered the use of his own home as the venue for the event, on account of his 'most impressive and efficient' ballroom.

And it was a very impressive ballroom. The vaulted ceiling seemed to touch the skies, and the chandeliers glowed like dazzling stars. The sound of the orchestra echoed throughout the long room, filling the guests with an urge to pull their partner on to the polished marble floor for an unforgettable waltz.

It struck her as odd to see all these people, laughing and drinking and dancing like they had no care in the world. Perhaps she was simply jealous of their remarkable ability to forget about all their troubles, a skill she had never mastered. Her brow creased as she tried to fight the frown that was threatening to ruin her mask.

With a sudden burst of emotion, her thoughts turned to the old days. In those days, dreams that the traditional girl of her age conceived, such as loving husbands and precious babies, were nonexistent in her mind. By that time in her long period of suffering, she was painfully aware that she would never live a normal, average life.

Some say that if you strive to be average and normal in every way, you are missing the point of what life should be. These people would say that you should instead strive to be extraordinary and unique in every way possible.

But to her, being normal is a coveted desire, imbedded deep into her soul.

_It was her birthday. She turned twelve years old at two o clock in the morning. She lay on the cold, immensely hard bunk, her eyes wide open. The dim, unreliable light fell limply into the long hall, barely giving her enough light to see the set of bunks next to hers. The orphanage was always dusty, and the constant feeling of oppression made the walls and ceiling sag, ever weary. Her thin, coarse sheets did nothing to protect her from the unrelenting gusts of wind that rattled the establishment._

_Only one year ago, her father had woken her the moment the clock struck two, and he had dragged her out of bed to his study. He pulled a marvelous package from one of the many drawers in his desk, and he pressed it into her small hands._

_Wonder illuminated her face as she carefully peeled back the wrappings to reveal a white box. With precision, she popped open the top of the cherished box. Nestled in the thin paper was a porcelain doll. Long, shiny, copper ringlets fell about her heart shaped face. Pink cheeks and baby blue eyes, a satin dress the color of roses._

_Such luxuries like this doll were unheard of in those difficult days. But her mind never once turned to that thought as she immediately commenced admiring and petting the treasure. Of course, no girl her age would ever think of things like the economic distress of her country and the improbability that her dear father had acquired the doll legally, while she was possessed with this ecstasy._

_She curled in a ball under her covers, as her body shuddered with sobs. Her father was gone, and she would never have another gift like that lovely doll._

She swallowed hard, pushing down the fear and despair that rose in her throat at this memory. She wanted to pull herself aside and hide her world weary face in her hands, but she remained next to his still figure.

He felt a small squeeze on his arm, and he glanced down at her. Nothing seem changed in her face, and he took a deep breath, slightly reassured. His eyes searched the huge room, taking in the guests circling the floor.

"Ready?" he asked her quietly. A slight nod was the only answer he received. They descended the staircase, still arm in arm, and an enchanting smile lit up her face. A half smile was all he could elicit through his sudden worry and dread. They successfully made it down to the main floor, where prim waiters ducked around, proffering sparkling glasses of the finest champagne.

He accepted two glasses, and passed one to her. She held it tightly in her hand, and when she took a sip, he noticed that she did not in fact swallow any of the liquid.

They passed by groups of chattering people as he guided her to the dance floor. She was cast second looks, and though she felt uncomfortable and wary, he knew it was only because of her incomparable beauty.

She melted into his arms as the orchestra began, and he was forced to keep his breathing in check, lest he give away the frantic pounding in his chest. Her breaths were like butterfly kisses against his neck, sweet and lovely.

They began to turn about, passing through the other couples as if they were the only ones in the room. Whispered conversations were taken up between jealous and admiring people, as eyes were soon focused on the young goddess and her dark, handsome guardian.

The orchestra finished with a final flourish, and she finally looked up into his eyes. A smoldering fire was lit in them, startling her and accelerating her heartbeat. They stood in the middle of the floor, slightly swaying to the echoing melody, frozen in each other's arms.

Their faces inched slowly together, and in what seemed like an eternity their noses brushed, side-by-side. He could taste her perfumed breath on his tongue, and when he closed his eyes, hers were branded into his mind.

They leaned in at precisely the same time, closing the distance between their lips. Her body melded with his as her lips stretched and pulled open his soul, pouring his very being into her fragile body.

They stood for perhaps years, letting their every secret escape into the other.

He guided her off of the floor, his ears immune to the carrying whispers that crossed through the room. He gazed down at her, his heart soaring to a strange, unknown melody.

"Be careful," he murmured into her delicate, pink ear. Her eyes glowed as she gazed up at him.

"I'll be back soon," She responded, laying a soft kiss on his cheek. She turned reluctantly, and glided off to one of the doorways, out into the crowded hall of people.

She walked in a daze, up the smaller, less grand staircase. Wherever she walked, the device installed in the clasp of her necklace caused the security cameras in her vicinity to suddenly sustain a loop of an empty hallway.

The plans of the building were secure in her mind, and she found the proper door without difficulty.

She unlocked the door using another gadget Fury had conveyed to her, and she soon stood in the doorway of a large, brightly lit office. She walked purposefully around the shiny mahogany desk and sat intently in front of the large, sophisticated computer. She typed away furiously, passing smoothly through the firewalls and encoded passwords.

The nagging sensation in the back of her head would not go away, but she had to persevere through the documents loaded with information. A file caught her eye and her throat constricted as she read the label 'Red Ledger'.

"My God," she whispered as she read further into the file, her mind buckling under the onslaught of astounding information. All of her numbness from the kiss and all of her exhilaration at the thought of him slowly faded from her system.

Her mind only had a minute to process the sight of the shadow that passed over the computer screen. With a sharp blow to the head, she slumped forward and her forehead slammed against the keyboard. Darkness settled around her and she knew no more.

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	11. Beyond What We Are Capable Of

**Sorry about the late update, everybody, but this was a long one. I just couldn't find the right place to stop! Anyways, hope you enjoy this one, cause this is my favorite chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own avengers**

_"Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape." Charles Dickens, Great Expectations_

_"Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out."- Markus Zusak, The Book Thief_

Anxiety mingled with his blood and pumped ferociously through his veins. Questions that would have seemed unnecessary to him in any other state of mind began to appear unbidden. His unrestrained worry was poisoning his brain and his logic. Some part of him knew that he was overreacting, but he also knew that he would not be able to stop until she was at his side once more. Were these people looking strangely at him, suspiciously? Did they suspect him? Perhaps they were all spies, all part of an elaborate scheme to net the two agents in their midst.

His 'emotional attachment', as it would be defined in the field agent guidelines, was compromising his better judgment and the safety of this mission. But he didn't care. He was in love, he needed to see her safe and sound. If something happened to her under his protection, he wouldn't be able to live on this earth any longer.

His logic grappled with his emotions, one was intent on staying firmly in place and the other was passionately in favor of following her up the staircase into that study. And so he stumbled slowly, pushing himself towards that staircase, as if he were following the intoxicating perfume that emanated from her red waves of hair.

His logical side took over once he ascended the stairs, and he carefully pulled from underneath his jacket a small gun. Though he preferred his bow, the gun was more practical for operations like this one.

Never had he felt such fear when his keen ears detected voices from behind the door of the study. The deep tones of several males reverberated through the hallway, and his anxiety increased when he could not distinguish her distinct voice among the others.

_Blind fear rattled his bones with every painful step. His trusted bow had never failed him before, but now it lay in two pieces at his feet. He was not a sentimental person, so he left it on the ground, and as he limped away he felt it fading from his mind, an old and already forgotten memory of the inconsistencies and broken promises in his long life._

_He was practically crawling now, the blood streaming profusely from the gaping hole in his abdomen. He could feel the fresh bullet digging and clawing deeper into his body with every movement he made. He slowed to inching along the ground, the ringing of gunshots still vibrating through the alleyway. He finally collapsed behind an old, abandoned car. Too weak to even pull himself up and look at his wound, he lay on the filthy ground, drifting between darkness and bright light._

_He didn't think she was real when her face hovered above his, he believed her to be some sort of hallucination created by his exhausted and defeated mind, a beautiful and bewitching mirage in the hot, unforgiving sun. And he thought it was just the wind that whispered and hissed his name, that surely it was not this creature's lips that formed the word._

_Yet it could not have been the wind that picked him up and dragged him back into the light. So it must have been her. Tears scorched his cheeks as a strange and delirious happiness racked his weak body._

_He would live after all. He didn't know how he felt about that, though. His life had not been an easy one, had not been a happy one. He had done evil things in his past, things that he should have to pay for eventually. He wanted to stop running away; but there were other ways to stop running, instead of death._

_But when he thought of her slight body supporting his, when he thought of the tremors of secret delight he felt when she touched him, when he thought of the understanding they had built so thoroughly between each other, he knew he could not die just yet._

Inching forward carefully, he brought his gun up closer and tried to look around the study door that had been left ajar. He licked his lips and crouched right outside the door. He could make out the words that were being exchanged, now.

"Was she operating alone?" a low, heavy, vaguely familiar voice inquired. There was a small scuffling noise in the background, then a dull thump, then quiet.

"Of course not. Do you think she would be that stupid? That fool of a partner she has is here as well, mark my words. We'll dispose of him after we're done with this one. Although, we wouldn't be dealing with this problem if you had done your job properly on that plane," a high, shrill voice reprimanded bluntly. So one of the men in the room was the Russian on the plane. Clint leaned in closer and listened hard, for any sound of her.

There were sudden, rapid footsteps to the door, and he had only a second to fling himself back as the heavy set Russian threw open the door with narrowed eyes. The Russian made a noise of surprise and drew his gun, but he wasn't fast enough. Clint shot him through the shoulder, and the man staggered back, crying out in pain. With a swift and precise kick, the Russian was unconscious on the carpet, his blood flowing freely.

But Clint would take care of him later. He didn't know how the man had escaped from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, but he could only guess that Marcus Rent used his pull over a certain department. If the Russian was still alive when the mission was over, Clint would hand him back over to a more reliable department. Right now, though, he was focused solely on Natasha.

He rushed immediately into the room, his gun ready and his finger itching on the trigger. But when he entered the room, he saw in the corner of his eye a flash of a short man with a pointed face disappearing through a hidden door. Clint was already kneeling at her side before he had even made up his mind to help her rather than give chase to Marcus Rent.

She was in a bad way. A dark purple lump stood out firmly on her forehead, and a thin bead of blood trickled down from her hairline. Her eyes were half open, and the glassy covering over them made her look like she was dreaming bewildering dreams.

She was limp in a chair, her hands and feet tied securely, not that they needed to be. She was too weak to even attempt to free herself. His hands shook as he fumbled with the straps that covered her small hands. Once he had freed both her hands and feet, she slumped forward alarmingly, and he had to support her back into the chair.

"Can you stand?" he asked her. It was a foolish question, as she could barely keep her head up to blearily look at him, but he had to follow Rent or call for back up, and he could not leave her in such a state.

She nodded faintly, though it was a complete and total lie. Her shaky limbs somehow managed to support her, though, without collapsing immediately. She would not allow him to offer himself as a human crutch, and so she shuffled unsteadily through the door after him, with a pounding in her head and shallow breathing.

The hidden door led up another staircase, and he flew up the steps with her panting and struggling behind him. If the target got away now, he could find safety with his clients and S.H.I.E.L.D. would not be able to touch him.

The stairs ascended into a concealed door that opened out onto a large balcony. The helicopter was off to one side, and the wild wind buffeted the figures standing around it. Rent was advancing quickly towards the transport, and Clint pushed himself to run even faster as Natasha fell farther behind.

Clint reached the helicopter just as Rent was climbing hurriedly inside. Clint charged one of the armed guards, kicking and punching, until successfully rendering him unconscious on the ground. Clint shouted into his earpiece over the roar of the wind for back up agents, and continued to decimate the armed guards. He heard a thump, and turned to see Rent with his gun out, pointed straight between Clint's eyes.

It seemed to turn eerily silent, as Clint stared down the black barrel. His mind was completely blank. Hadn't he been trained for this situation? he wondered. But when he attempted to recall the maneuver, he came up empty handed. So he simply contemplated the deadly weapon, at a complete loss as to what to do. The world around him slowed down drastically, and the wind stopped just for a moment.

Then a staccato burst of noise split open his calm, peaceful surroundings like a bolt of lightening. All at once, the wind continued and the earth commenced spinning. A gunshot. For an awful, unsettling moment he could almost feel the cool, slick bullet pass swiftly through his head, and his life flashed before his eyes.

_He was a child, standing beside his grim father, dressed in a tight suit that choked him. His father placed a cold, unfeeling hand on his shoulder, and the flash of the camera blinded him, making him see black. The flash was not as cruel an experience as was the immediate retraction of his father's hand._

_He stood in the bitter cold, his eyes cast down on his father's grave, and his constantly restrained emotions burst through the carefully constructed dam, and tears ran down his cheeks. He found himself wishing he had had the chance to forgive his father, to make things right with him. But now his father lay rotting in his grave, and he had died believing his son despised him and hated him with a burning passion._

_He saw the young woman, cowering in fear before him, and he could not bring himself to kill this poor creature, whose life had been filled to the brim with pain and suffering. He saw in her a reflection of himself, and he knew he could never be able to end such a woman, innocent in some ways, but with sad and disenchanted eyes._

But as the wind raged around him still, he became aware that he was still breathing. For a moment, a naive part of him wondered, Am I in heaven or hell? A second later, he knew that he must be in the latter. He had done evil in his life, and so he must endure the smoke and the flame.

He opened his eyes gradually, his mind frightened of what he might see. He was still on the balcony. A dead man lay at his feet. So, the cry of the gun had not been intended for him. He could have wept for joy or for fear. But he did not.

He turned to see her fall to the ground, the gun she had fired skittering away on the stones. Her name choked him as he ran to her still figure, the wind thrashing him around and the world turning silent once more.

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	12. Lovers Alone Wear Sunlight

**Here you go, guys, the next chapter! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers**

_"Sometimes she did not know what she feared, what she desired: whether she feared or desired what had been or what would be, and precisely what she desired, she did not know." - Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina_

_"And he could not tell why the struggle was worthwhile, why he had determined to use the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed..._

_He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. _

_'I know myself,' he cried, 'But that is all.' " - F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise_

Her eyes felt heavy and thick, and she found she was unable to open them all the way. She could merely catch a sliver of the world through the slit of vision she was able to create. The air seemed unnaturally hot and stifling, making it hard for her to properly breath. Slowly, she began to feel the bed around her, and she could open her eyes wide enough to see bright, artificial light beaming down on her.

It was hard to distinguish the real voices from the ones crying out in her head, but she was certain that one of the voices in the room was his. It became increasingly difficult for her to decide what he was actually saying, so she just listened to his low, anxious tones.

She found she wasn't in any sort of pain. She was simply existing.

An irritating beeping sound followed the voices into her mind, giving her strange fear and discomfort. What she was afraid of, she didn't know. Her mind was too muddled and confused to remember what this beeping sound meant. The beeping continued, like the tattoo of drums, pounding and digging into her brain. She wanted to scream, she wanted to run away, but she couldn't move a muscle in her body. Then it struck her, the elusive memory, overpowering her weak being.

_The men beside her were strangers. Though they shouldered deadly weapons, she was not bothered by the fact that she had only met them a few hours prior. The network she was a part of had many divisions and members, and she was sure she would never know every single one of them. But they were here, so they had to be trustworthy. Double agents were dealt with efficiently and effectively, and the chances of one staying alive in such an organization were incredibly slim._

_They crawled forward on their stomachs, eyes on the dark road. From their rooftop perches, they could see down the whole stretch of the silent street. They watched and waited, for any sign of life. A flash caught her eye, and she brought her gun up fast, pointed towards it. She waited for it again, but there was only darkness._

_A whirring sound brought all of the men up on their elbows, guns ready, and a clattering signaled something had landed on their rooftop. Heavy, guttural, Russian words were exchanged quietly, and one of the men advanced towards the unknown object._

_They froze as a beeping sound broke the fresh silence, cutting through their ears and making their hearts hammer wildly. She had only a minute to throw her hands over her face before a raw wall of energy slammed into her. The powerful grenade had thrown the men off of the rooftop, sending some spiraling to their deaths on the pavement five stories below. She was one of the lucky ones, having been pitched onto the adjacent rooftop, but her injuries caused unbearable pain to rocket up her body. _

_Her ears were consumed with a loud, awful monotone noise, and if her mind had not been reeling with infinite confusion and tremendous torture, she would have noted that both of her eardrums had been damaged. Her own blood drenched her thoroughly and she seemed rooted to the ground in the fetal position. The demonic buzzing in her ears did not stop, and her lips opened wide to hurl out a silent, bloodcurdling scream of agony to the detached world._

Her breathing spiked immediately, and vaguely she could hear the rushing of feet and the voices in the room became louder, harsher to her fragile ears. She could feel her body shuddering and shaking the bed, she could hear her heart thunder on and on with the horrible beeping keeping up with her.

Her lips were sealed shut, so she could not shriek or scream out in the suffocating air. Suddenly, a quiet pressure was applied to her palm. The nerves in her hand awoke immediately, responding to his touch. Her shaking began to slow, her breathing and heartbeat returned to their normal pace. Several sighs of relief colored the tense room, and she frowned in distress. Why couldn't she open her eyes? She wanted to see him, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to taste him on her lips.

But the more she wanted to open her eyes, the heavier they became. Soon they distant voices faded and blackness wrapped her up in its arms.

He held her tenderly, folding himself around her in a protective manner. The wind rattled his bones and the cold chilled his soul, but still, he held her. The other agents were already there, tidying up and taking care of the dead bodies. The Russian was led away in a stretcher, still alive, but only just. Director Fury was coming up on the balcony, a medical team at his side.

He didn't let go of her limp body, but stayed with her throughout the ambulance to the hospital, throughout the plane back to headquarters. Even when the doctors told him she was holding steady, he still stroked her hand and prayed to the God he no longer believed in for her to wake up.

But she didn't.

He remained in her room all day and all night, a constant guardian. If something went wrong, if she was moaning and crying out in her sleep, he would press the call button and doctors would come and administer painkillers. He hated being so useless; he hated seeing her like this and not being able to do anything about it. Of course he blamed himself for her condition. He had been careless on that balcony, he had been so caught up in apprehending the target, he had forgotten her, neglected her. And then she saved his life. Again.

She stirred, plagued by the haunting dreams of her past, and he sat up straighter, all signs of fatigue vanishing from his face. Her eyes opened reluctantly and she cringed away from the brightness, so jarringly different from her dark nightmares.

"Tasha?" he murmured, laying his hand on hers. She had been conscious earlier in the day, but the doctors gave her more painkillers after the shaking and the acceleration of her heartbeat.

"Clint," she mumbled in a hoarse voice, as she had been asleep for many days. She blinked up at him and smiled feebly. "You look terrible," she continued, and he managed a smile as well. And not just a half smile. A full, complete, sparkling smile.

His beautiful, shining teeth swam in her dreams that night.

**So, I think I'll continue with the story cause I'm having so much fun with this! Don't worry, I've got some devious plans in store for these two...Reviews? Thanks for reading!**


	13. The Basest Sentimentality

**Hey guys, I'm back! Enjoy! P.S., watch out for some language...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers**

_"You teach me now how cruel you've been - cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you - they'll damn you. You loved me - what right had you to leave me? What right - answer me - for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery, and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will did it. I have no broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you - Oh, God! would you like to lie with your soul in the grave?" - Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights_

It was a strange and new feeling to her, being loved. Not to mention loving someone else. These were foreign experiences to her, and her uneasiness put up a strong fight against her impulsiveness. But in the end, she found she enjoyed it all. It was so real, so substantial. Except for the fact that her heart was slowly and painfully being chipped away at, like a block of ice being prepared by a sculptor.

Because she was lying to him. So early in their relationship, and she was lying to him already. A part of her thought that, frankly, it was a wonder she had even gotten this far. Three months from the last mission. And the rest of her actually naively thought that she could be normal, just this once, and simply be in love. But of course, things were falling apart, as things always do for her.

It had begun last night.

The lights in her room were off as she returned to it after a long day. The endless paperwork had been grueling, and already she was itching to be back in the field. Anything to take her mind off of certain things. But still, she had him, and that made the monotonous days worthwhile.

"You should get some sleep. It was a long day today," he smiled softly at her, noting the dark circles under her eyes. They stood outside her door in the bright, white hallway. In answer she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. He stroked her hair silently, reading her body language and knowing she was afraid to go to sleep. But she knew that he was afraid as well, and so she found strength in this form of union.

He had to conquer his own demons before fighting hers. So, reluctantly, he left her fumbling with the lock on her door.

She knew something was off when she closed the door with a quiet click. She froze, her senses reaching out and groping, searching for whatever it was that was wrong. Her hand inched down to her belt, where her gun rested. She whirled around, gun in hand, and the lights flashed on.

A man lounged leisurely in one of her armchairs. He handled a cigarette lazily in one hand, blowing rings of weak smoke towards her. Blonde eyelashes framed dark, maniacal eyes. Light, golden colored curls danced around his thin, elfish face. He was tall, languid, and looked as though he was much younger than he actually was. Her throat tightened and her nails bore into her palms. She recognized him. She lowered her gun cautiously.

"Natasha, my dear, how are you?" he smiled pleasantly, taking a long drag from his cigarette. His accent was hard to place. It was almost British, but she knew he was a full-blooded Russian and a master of many useful languages. He crossed his legs casually and gently tapped his cigarette with a long, slender finger. "What a lovely fellow, eh?" He nodded towards the door where Clint had just left her. "Quite a charmer...And here I was thinking you would never get over me." His smile widened, like the smirk of the Cheshire Cat.

"What are you doing here," she answered curtly, ignoring the jibe. She sat down stiffly on the couch opposite him, and watched him wrap his lips around his cigarette once more.

" Is that any way to greet an old friend?" He chuckled slightly at her grimace. "Scotch?" he asked, indicating the crystal decanter on the low table between them. She didn't respond, and he shrugged in his constantly nonchalant manner. "Well, we might as well be comfortable, yes?" He poured himself a generous helping and studied the caramel liquid before tipping it down his throat. She leaned forward, keeping her eyes on him.

"Andrei. What are you doing here?" she repeated in a deadly whisper. His smile faded slowly, but the careless amusement was still present on his pale face. He cocked an eyebrow. Another long drag from his cigarette.

"You know," he began, fingering his cigarette thoughtfully. "I prefer the Russian brands. Much better. I've no patience for this American shit." In one fluid movement, he crushed the cigarette in his hand and brushed the remnants off of his expensive pants. He continued on.

"I think you know why I'm here, Natasha. We need you, ma belle," He smiled sweetly, his French term of endearment stinging her as artificial sincerity dripped from his deceiving tongue. He spread his arms wide, a grand gesture, his teeth gleaming dangerously in the sharp light. "Welcome back, sweetling."

"I'm not coming back, and you know it. There's no way I'm leaving this place to go with you. So you can just get out of here. Now," she frowned down at him, just a little uncomfortable and a little frightened. He chuckled again, and drew out of his jacket a new cigarette. He placed his glass down and lit his cigarette with an ornate lighter.

He was always smoking, even in the old days when she was his accomplice. The cigarette was simply an extension of his hand, a constant installment, as was the lighter he enjoyed showing off. It was a wonder he had not died of lung disease, let alone a bullet to the stomach. But he had to deal with his world one way or another, and his underlings in the organization preferred he use smoking rather than venting it all on them. Besides, a calm leader made wiser decisions, and the continual smoking saved them all from rash and impudent actions. He sighed and ran a hand errantly through his tousled blonde hair.

"Somehow," he said. "I had a feeling you would say that. So I regret to tell you, my darling, that you have no choice in the matter. Not unless you want that fascinating young man to live, eh? Clint Barton, I believe his name is, yes?" He dropped the name with the air of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and knew exactly what it was doing to her. Her heart beat faster and her eyes narrowed. His tongue reached out to lick his pink lips.

"Just so you understand, Natasha dear, you won't be leaving this lovely establishment. No, we just need an inside agent, so to speak. Just someone to let us know what's going on. And in particular, we need something of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. A top-secret file. Surely you would have access to such a file?" The light danced in his merry eyes. A small smile played on his lips as he examined his nails. She remained silent. "So, we are agreed? Good, very good. I'm glad you see the gravity of the situation, Natasha."

He stood and smoothed out his suit, placing the glass down on the table. She was still frozen in position and did not react when he patted her shoulder.

"Oh, and before I go," he leaned in close to her, his poisonous lips inches from her ear. "If you tell Clint Barton or anyone else about our little arrangement, it won't matter that we've known each other since birth. I will end you, right then and there, and I will not regret it." His lips brushed her pink, delicate ear and she shuddered despite herself. He took a final drag from his cigarette and blew out another ring of grey smoke. Then he was gone, and she sat in the dark, her heart continuing to hammer in her chest.

_She peered out her father's study window. The rustling of paper behind her indicated that her father was hard at work. One of her hands clutched her pale pink dress, and the other rested on the windowsill. She leaned into the window, looking out onto the long, cobbled street filled with bustling people. She glanced back at her father. Still reading his papers intently. When she turned back to the window, he was there._

_A beautiful blonde boy, with an enchanting smile and dark, captivating eyes. He waved enthusiastically at her, then beckoned to her. She shook her head minutely, nodding back to her father's still figure. He grinned, a wild, reckless grin that made her heart race. He blew a kiss up at her, and dashed off, vanishing into the crowds of people._

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	14. And All the World Drops Dead

**Apologies for the late update. Thanks so much for the reviews! Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own avengers.**

_"I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between."- Sylvia Plath_

_"Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts." -Charles Dickens, Great Expectations_

He strolled through the pristine hallways, hands in his pockets, whistling softly. It was uncharacteristic of him, to stroll and to whistle. His normal walk was a brisk, focused gait. The walk of someone who knows exactly where he is going and how he will get there. But now, now he was wandering, aimlessly, through the building. Other agents would walk by, and then look back, as if reassuring themselves that this was the trained assassin Clint Barton, not some cheerful, whistling imposter.

Then they whispered behind closed doors, gossiping as all co-workers would. She's changing him, they murmured. Natasha Romanoff is changing him. And they all hoped, they all prayed that she was changing him for the better.

He passed by an open door, the door to the electronics lab. It was filled to the brim with all of the best technology and had just been upgraded, courtesy of Tony Stark. He paused in the doorway, underneath the bold and almost garish heading that read Stark Technological Lab.

The lab was empty, save for a glimpse of fiery red curls in the corner. It was if she had chosen the computer that had full view of the door, but anyone standing in either of the two doors would not be able to see her, unless they were really looking. He opened his mouth to greet her, as she had not noticed him yet, but something stopped him. He frowned slightly, his eyes catching the frenzied look of hers as she read whatever was on the screen. He felt intrusive, and turned to leave.

A soft noise assaulted his ears. It sounded like a sob, originating from the room. He moved back to the doorway, but by the time he got there, she had already left through the other door. He was curious, and slowly went to the desk she was working at. He felt like he was betraying her somehow, he didn't like that he was invading her privacy. But he needed to ease his mind, so he clicked the mouse and the computer whirred to life.

She hadn't bothered to exit the page she had been looking at. It was careless of her, a mistake she would never have made if she had been in her right mind. His eyes narrowed as he read the page to himself.

"Andrei Tugenov. Russian national. Leader of established crime organization. Based in Russia and surrounding Europe, but operates over the whole world," he read with growing wariness. The rest of the information, including known associates, was labeled confidential, and was only accessible with top level clearance, and there was no way Clint was going to Fury about this.

Who was this man, with no picture to his name? Why was Natasha looking him up in SHIELD records? Did this man have something to do with Natasha's shrouded past? These questions and various others floated in his head. He switched off the computer and put his head in his hands. If she was in trouble...but she would never tell him, he reasoned with a hint of bitterness. We may be close, he thought, but Natasha can hold secrets inside of her for years, and no amount of persuasion will make her divulge her deepest and most intimate ones.

Her fingers drummed impatiently on the desk. Her breathing was fast and the air stung as it passed through her throat. At intervals, she had to force her foot to stop tapping, as her boots made a loud, echoing sound when in contact with the resonant floor. The computer seemed frustratingly slow to her, today of all days. Her eyes scanned the room around her, her nerves eating away at her insides. Normally she would never be so skittish, so edgy. She was trained to control all anxiety. But in that small, confined, lab, all of her etiquette vanished with the thin, stale air.

She read the page quickly, her eyes dashing over the short sentences, absorbing as much as possible. She knew most of the information beforehand, but was surprised by how much SHIELD had on him. Most of it was classified, but this was to be expected, since one of their top agents was once his chief associate.

_It was a dark and dingy sort of cafe, but it had a grand reputation of being the favorite of the affluent residents of the city. The drizzle of rain barely wet the streets, and she ducked into the withered door with her over coat only just damp._

_The small cafe was teeming with patrons, all of them shedding their sleek raincoats to reveal tailored garments underneath. Some of them raised their eyebrows at her modest attire, but she ignored them. She was never one to care about what people thought. _

_She secured a narrow table and ordered from the pompous waiter a hot drink, peeling off her coat and thin gloves. Her table was packed in between a nosy couple and three gossiping socialites. It was too loud for an intimate atmosphere, she observed as she sipped her coffee in silence._

_Across the room was a dark corner with a few tables full of men in fine suits. The talked amongst themselves, not touching the steaming drinks in front of them. A haze of cigar smoke drifted over them. She found herself watching this elusive and fascinating part of the room, as she felt a sort of strange and unnerving pull in that direction. _

_There was a tangible pause in the room, like all of the men and women stopped talking at once. A blonde man reclining in a chair in the center of one of the tables in the corner looked up and caught her eye. She recognized him immediately, though he had grown much over the long years apart. She saw the raving look in his dark eyes, and she knew it was him. Then the pause was over and the people resumed talking, as if they were unaware a critical moment had just occurred._

_She hastily bent over her table, scooping up her cup and swirling the contents, like a miner panning for gold in the river. A long shadow passed over her table, and she reluctantly looked up, knowing it was him. He was as handsome as ever, in an expensive suit that almost seemed too ostentatious for him. He could wear rags and still look like a fashionable aristocrat. _

"_Natasha," he greeted her with a glittering smile. A cigarette dangled from his long fingers, and she could taste its smoke polluting the air around her. "It has been too long, Natasha, too long. You have not changed a bit. Still gorgeous and still shy."_

_Perhaps he could sense the caution in her smile, the hesitance in her hand as he squeezed it in his own. His own smile faded just slightly. So she must know, he decided to himself. She must believe what everyone is saying about me._

"_Andrei," she replied, conjuring the proper amount of delight one should show when confronted with a childhood friend. "Andrei, how have you been? I've missed you so much…" She could think of nothing else to say, and so she trailed off, careful not to let her voice betray how uncomfortable she was._

"_Well, my dear…" his smile returned with gusto. "I've been all around. Traveled to America just last week."_

"_What on earth were you doing there?" This time, he really noticed the feigned innocence in her words, and now he knew that she was well aware of what he had really been doing._

"_Visiting, that's all… just visiting some old friends," She waited for him to elaborate, but he stopped talking. He sat down across from her, rocking the tiny table. "You know, Tasha, perhaps you could help me with something? I really need someone I could trust right now…just a small favor."_

_She saw the old gleam in his eyes; the gleam that meant something wicked was planned for the two of them. In their childhood, this particular gleam meant stealing a loaf of bread in the crowded marketplace, or sneaking into her father's study to read forbidden books and play with his old astrolabe. But know, she knew that things were different. She didn't know what was to come, but she was not frightened and at the time her ind had been clouded with confusion and secret happiness at seeing him. Looking back on this fateful day, she wondered whether or not knowing the truth about what was to come would have changed her decision to go with him._

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	15. Deep in Earth My Love is Lying

**Here's the next chapter! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own avengers**

_"Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness."- Markus Zusak, The Book Thief_

_"The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence." -Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar_

She was curled up in her comfy armchair, trying to read one of her old, battered classics. The lights were off in her room, and she was reading only by the thin strands of light floating down into the room through the slightly open windows. It was a cold, brisk morning, and she shivered as the wind drifted in and stung her skin. It was refreshing though, to have something so pure and so clean so close to her. She tried to concentrate on the reading, but she found she was going over the same line over and over. She tossed the book on to her table in frustration, rubbing her tired eyes vigorously, as if that would rub out the thoughts weighing down her mind.

She cringed at the knocking at the door. The last time he had visited her like this, things had gone badly, to say the least. But she was stronger now; or so she chanted to herself as she got up to answer the door. That part of her brain that was forever suspended in the past wondered whether being in love was a sign of weakness or strength. And was she even in love? This part of her scoffed knowingly. If she was betraying the man she claimed to care for, could she say truthfully that she loved him?

He saw that her smile was forced when she pulled open the door. She seemed different to him, somehow. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, fragilely, like she was close to breaking. Or perhaps it was the way she avoided his eyes when leading him into the cold room.

"Hey," he said simply, sitting down next to her. He kept his distance though, not touching her for fear she might shatter in his hands. "You been hiding in here all day, Tasha?"

If he thought the use of her nickname would make her more comfortable, he was mistaken. She recoiled ever so slightly, looking at the ground and folding her thin hands in her lap. He rallied his nerves and reached out, enclosing her ice-cold hand in his. She looked up at him, and he tried to read her body language. Her eyes looked somber and doleful. The question rolled off of his tongue before his cowardly side could stop it.

"What's wrong, Natasha. And don't say 'Nothing'. You can trust me. Just tell me what's wrong," He gave her hand a soft squeeze that he hoped was reassuring. He was shocked and scared when fresh tears slipped down her pale cheeks.

She shook her head silently as the tears continued to slide down her face.

She watched his steely gray eyes harden minutely. She held back a loud sob as her heart was being ripped to shreds. He pulled his hand back slowly and she sat completely still. She choked the words out, the words that she hoped would apologize and express how much she wanted to tell him the truth in the same sentence.

"I love you," she said, the tears spilling over and her hands clenching in pain and fear. He stood lightly, walking over to the door.

"But not enough," he responded as he turned his back on the crying girl.

She sat in the same position for a long time, the salty taste of tears still lingering on her tongue. When she finally stood, her bones felt old and weathered as she struggled over to her bedroom. Lying neatly on her bed was a thick file, marked confidential. She fingered the edges, and hatred for herself and what she was doing bubbled up inside of her. She stuffed the file into her bag, not wanting to look at it any more, not wanting to remind herself.

And maybe that was another thing that was wrong with her, a part of her reasoned. She couldn't face the truth, she couldn't stand up for herself. And that was what made it so easy to try to forget the past and to keep moving forward.

But this was the only thing that kept her alive all these years. The ability to move on and let the awful guilt and the painful memories fade into the background. She closed her eyes, as the turmoil raged in her brain. She didn't know what to think anymore. She was completely and utterly lost. He had been her only tether to reality. And now he was gone as well.

She turned to go, but the gleam of the full body mirror made her stop in her tracks. She advanced cautiously towards the pure mirror, staring at her wild, desolate eyes and washed out skin. Her breathing sped as she watched herself move, not knowing what to think about what she saw in her reflection.

She was panting now, and her eyes watched as she turned in one fluid movement, taking the ancient clock from her bedside table and hurling it at the mirror. The glass shards fell everywhere, piercing the black carpet and scattering under her bed. They whispered soft, sinister words up at her frozen form, poisoning her frail body and corrupted soul. Betrayer. Liar. Deceiver. Monster.

She pulled herself up, breathing ragged, harsh breaths and staring at the destitute frame of the mirror, wondering why she could still see her reflection in the emptyiness.

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	16. So Dawn Goes Down Today

**Sorry it's been so long! I've been studying for finals, and writing two new stories...Been really busy! Anyways, I present to you the next chapter. I'll be wrapping up pretty soon, and i'd like to say I've had so much fun with this story! Even toying with the idea of a prequel...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own avengers.**

_"If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. " J.R.R. Tolkein_

The sour rain greeted her that morning as she hurried down the empty street. Her bag was slung over her back, the stolen file burning her skin through the layers of material. Her footsteps echoed throughout the desolate street, rattling the decrepit buildings and piercing her bones. She kept her eyes downcast, avoiding the blank and gloomy stares of the looming structures.

The doorway was up ahead, a single man posted outside. She passed into the dim hallway, careful to tread softly upon the creaking hardwood floor. She drifted to the door at the end and paused, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden bright, blinding lights.

Cigar smoke hung in the air, looming menacingly over the seated men. There were perhaps a dozen, and she knew that they were the top operatives for the organization, all here for her. She settled down at one of the empty seats, an awful familiarity consuming her and filling her with dread. The men angled their chairs towards her as she pulled out the file with shaking hands. She hadn't read the stolen documents; she almost took pride in not stooping that low. With a quick thrust, she shoved the file down the table to the head chair, where he sat in his ever-nonchalant manner.

He didn't greet her, but merely picked up the papers and immediately started pouring over them. His eyes traced every word hungrily, feverishly. For a while, there was silence in the room, save for the occasional puff of a cigarette.

"Thank you, Natasha," He drawled, closing the file and tossing it back on the table. "Operation Red Ledger. Fascinating stuff." His smile widened at the brief flash of a shock that crossed over her face. So that was the file she had stolen. Her breathing picked up. Now that the file was in hostile hands, there was no telling what would happen and how it would affect the future of SHIELD. She rallied her nerves and spoke.

"That's it, then," her voice carried through the dismal room and punctured the heavy air. "I'm done. This will be the last of our contact." He frowned at her, interlacing his fingers and leaning back in his chair.

"It doesn't have to be, my dear," He said slowly. "You can always return to us. We've kept your seat warm." He waved towards the empty chair on his immediate right.

"No, thank you," she responded stiffly, her nostrils flaring. He inclined his head, and then stood swiftly.

"Well then, we say goodbye. May you live a long and-" his voice cut off when there was a sudden and violent thump outside of the room. The other thugs were on their feet in an instant, loaded guns in hand. The man closest to the door threw it open to reveal an empty hallway. The only sign that someone had been there was the swinging lamp that hung somberly from the sagging ceiling.

Andrei rapped out orders in rapid Russian. She sat rigidly upright in her seat, dread slowly encasing her mind. She knew what was the cause of the noise. And she cursed Clint to the fiery pits of hell for following her. She felt like crying, she felt like hiding. How could he be so foolish? He could only get himself hurt. Damn him! And damn my weakness, and myself for wanting him to follow me. She cried to herself, shutting her eyes and praying he would leave unharmed.

He gazed blankly down at the ground from his rooftop perch, out onto the road that led out of the base, into the city. He really had no purpose for being there. It was just his desire to be up somewhere high, looking down on everything. It was more comfortable to him, more familiar. There was a commotion below, and his eyes zeroed in on her bouncing red curls.

What was she doing? She rarely left the base, and only for missions. He frowned and leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing. She got into one of the nondescript black cars and drove slowly and carefully out of the compound, as if she were trying not to draw attention to herself.

He knew something was wrong. She didn't simply leave the base on joy rides. No, something was wrong. There were a thousand other ways she could escape the compound without being seen. Just allowing herself to be watched, albeit from a distance, made no sense. He had a feeling that she wanted him to follow her.

He raced down the stairs, leaping down two steps at a time. He threw open the front doors and jumped into one of the many cars. He floored it, setting the built-in GPS to follow her car. She was headed to the city, to the industrial part of town. It was a breeding ground for criminals, and a known branch of the Russian mafia existed in the neighborhood. That had to be where she was headed. He was struck suddenly by a distressing thought. She had let him follow her. She was in trouble. Was she being forced into something? He knew vaguely of the unsavory characters that dwelled in her past. He doubted they had ever lost her when she was compromised. They must have known she had been picked up by SHIELD. And they must have known where she was all along.

He slammed his fist on the wheel in frustration. Why didn't she tell him? But of course she wouldn't, she was too damned proud, too damned noble. And it would get her killed one day.

He drove in a frenzy, weaving skillfully through the traffic and ignoring the short, irritated beeps of horns. Natasha was the only thing on his mind. He had to help her.

**Review? Thanks! Don't worry, the wait for the next chapter won't be as long.**


	17. I'll Sleep in your Embrace At Last

**Here's the next chapter! So, this story is wrapping up, but I think one or two more chapters is in the making. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers**

_"One word_

_Frees us of all the weight and pain of life:_

_That word is love."_

_Sophocles_

_"When you trip over love, it is easy to get up. But when you fall in love, it is impossible to stand again." – Albert Einstein_

He lay in wait, breathing hard, with his back pressed up against the wall. He heard the barking of Russian words from the hallway as he tried to melt into the wall. He had been incredibly careless, tripping over an exposed nail in the creaking hardwood floor. He had been up in a second, heart racing, and he had dashed into the only other doorway. It was a dark, musty room with the looming furniture covered in dusty white sheets.

Panting, he slid further from the doorway, careful not to make a sound. But of course they knew he was in that room. The only other way he could have escaped through was the front door, and there was no damn way he would leave her. Not now, when they were so close.

He drew his bow up to his chest, noiselessly notching a black arrow in place and moving behind the piece of furniture he supposed was the couch. He had substituted his gun for his bow, and he was glad for it, because he knew a gun could not give him the cover he needed. He pressed the small button at the end of his arrow, and the red light flashed several times. The shadow of a bulky man passed over the doorway, blocking out the already dim light that the hallway lamp had provided. Clint took one deep breath.

He flew out from behind the couch, his bow coming up automatically. The man in the doorway had no time to react as Clint pulled the string taut and let the arrow loose. It struck the wall inches from the man's head. Clint allowed himself a smirk as he waited for the arrow that he intentionally imbedded into the wall to activate. There was a dull click and a white haze slowly saturated the hallway. The man in the doorway fell to his knees, coughing roughly, as Clint pulled the front of his black shirt up to cover his mouth and his nose. Clint forced his way through the cluster of large bodies in the hallway, pushing and shoving as the men gave way easily, too weak from the gas to react.

He soon stood before the other room in the hall, where a tall blonde man was hunched over the table with his sleeve covering his nose. Slumped in one of the chairs was Natasha, her arm up in the same fashion, her eyes flashing when she saw Clint. Clint moved forward and pushed aside the blonde man, who stumbled back into the wall. He beckoned to her, reaching out his hand and taking hold of her soft and small one.

He pulled her out of the chair and into the hallway, where they were greeted with coughing and Russian curses. He threw open the front door, and the pair of them collapsed into the dirty street, Clint on his hands and knees, coughs racking through his body, and Natasha on her back, breathing weakly.

"Tasha?" he croaked, his coarse voice barely audible over the whimpering inside the house. "Tasha, can you hear me?" he rasped frantically, moving to her still figure and clutching her hand.

The pulse was faint, but it was there. He stroked her face, watching her eyes flutter desperately behind her thin, purple lids. There was a beat of silence, as the cries from the house seemed to dissipate in a gust of cold wind.

Her eyes flickered open feebly, and they spun wildly as she tried to adjust to the sudden light. Her eyes had trouble focusing on his, but eventually they pierced his own, rekindling the fire in his soul.

"Clint," she mumbled hoarsely, looking weakly up at him. "Clint, I'm so sorry." In answer, he wrapped her up in his arms, their hearts beating hectically as one. She lay limp, unable to lift her arms and embrace him as well. She could feel his low breathing on her neck, and she closed her eyes, hoping to feel this way forever.

With a violent yank, they were separated. She cried out, but her lips could form no sound other than bitter coughing. Her eyes, still clouded by the gas, sought for the source of the disturbance. They adjusted, and in horror she saw a tall man dragging Clint away from her.

"Dammit," the tall man spat, as the haze cleared and she saw Andrei bent over Clint. Andrei threw his head back, drawing in fresh air to his gas-filled lungs. He lifted Clint up to his feet, who was struggling profusely in Andrei's iron grip.

Andrei pulled from under his jacket a gleaming revolver, his dancing eyes darkened with fury. He placed the cool barrel against Clint's head, and Clint stopped moving immediately, his eyes wary. Natasha drew herself up slowly, the air pressing in on her as if she was deep underwater.

"Now," Andrei growled, all hints of amusement gone from his icy voice. "Stay where you are, my dear, and no one gets hurt. Ah, but I see why you like this one. Feisty." He grinned humorlessly, tightening his grip on the gun. Natasha swallowed hard, her eyes not leaving Clint's face.

They reached a silent agreement, just by looking into each other's eyes. In a second, Natasha had her gun in her hand, pointed at Andrei. Without hesitation, she fired upon her childhood friend, sending him spiraling back with a cry of pain. She hadn't killed him. She nicked his shoulder, not hitting any vital organs but making him release Clint, out of respect for their past friendship, when he cared for her, and she for him.

Clint stumbled over to her, gasping in air, his eyes shining. She melted into his arms, tears running down her cheeks, as they stood in the street, forgetting the world around them. He murmured words of comfort into her ear as she cried unrestrainedly onto his shoulder.

Her brain registered what was going to happen before it actually did. There was a scuffle behind them and she saw Andrei get up to his feet with murder in his eyes. Clint heard it too, and drew back from her, one hand groping for an arrow to place to his bow and the other hand still securely holding on to Natasha's.

The gunshot rang throughout the street, shaking the decrepit buildings around them and rattling the very street they stood upon. She frowned as her eyes scrambled to tell her brain what had happened. But in her heart, she already knew.

Clint crumpled, his body pulling her down with him. Her hands came up automatically, releasing her hold on him, and with a thump, he fell like a weight to the ground. She stood frozen, looking down on him, and then her hand went to the gun still at her side. The bullet passed cleanly through Andrei's forehead, and the man fell immediately. But she didn't watch.

Her hands were shaking madly as she turned Clint over onto his back. Blood blossomed from his side where the bullet had pierced, and her hands fumbled as she tried to apply pressure to the wound. Soon, her hands were drenched in his blood. She breathed in gasps, her body struggling to go through the motions. Take air in, let air out. Push on the wound. Let air in, let air out. Push harder.

She only pulled one hand away to press the alert button on her phone. SHIELD would be coming soon. It seemed like years until she finally heard the screaming of the sirens, the tears still flowing from her red eyes.

"Clint, I'm sorry. Clint, I love you," she repeated, believing if she said it over and over, it would make him open his eyes.

But his eyes remained closed as he lay there in the street, with the woman he loved sobbing over his still body.

**Review? Thanks!**


	18. Lights Will Guide You Home

**This is the last chapter everybody! Wow, I've had so much fun writing this story, and I really appreciate all the reviews you guys have written. THANK YOU! You guys are the best! I never could have finished this without all of you. Anyways, without further ado, I give you the final chapter.**

Lights Will Guide You Home**  
**

_"I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one. . . . Humans are caught—in their lives, in their thoughts, in their hungers and ambitions, in their avarice and cruelty, and in their kindness and generosity too—in a net of good and evil. . . . There is no other story. A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of his life, will have left only the hard, clean questions: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well—or ill?"- John Steinbeck, East of Eden_

_"It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world."- John Steinbeck, East of Eden_

Her fingers loosely grasped the polished wooden handle of the brush. She lifted it off the table and raised it to her hair, proceeding to run the bristles through her flaming red waves. Her mournful expression was punctuated with vacant, wandering eyes. Eyes that screamed out to the indifferent world, eyes that wept for all that was lost. Her hand shook as she repeated the motion, pulling the brush through her hair, over and over.

There was a ghostly cry that resounded in the room. Her name. She looked up from habit, glancing at the door. But it was empty. She was alone. She shut her eyes, trying to bore out the noise and the visions that haunted her with every step.

The cries grew louder, amplifying to a chaotic symphony of sorrow and agony. She fell to her knees on the hard floor, dropping the brush with a harsh clatter. Her fingers sought her temples, rubbing and pressing as if the action alone could stop the noise.

She gasped, and her hands covered her face, feeling the cold tears trailing down her pale cheeks.

Her red lips parted as if to shriek, but she could only choke on the forgotten words she never said to him.

_He looked up, expecting to see blue skies. It was daytime. At least, it felt like it should be daytime to him. Then again, he couldn't be sure. Time moved so strangely in this place, this sort of wild limbo. _

_But he saw stars instead. Twinkling stars set across a blank, deep blue canvas. He frowned, wondering how it could be night already. He walked on, for he was always walking in this strange place, always wandering. _

_He felt like he was moving farther and farther away from something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what he was missing. There were parts of his brain that just seemed to vanish. He groped blindly in his mind for memories that simply weren't there anymore._

_A part of him knew that this should bother him, that this should be troubling. Then he would stop walking and look about himself in confusion and bewilderment, fighting the uncomfortable amnesia, as if waking up from a deep sleep and trying to remember the dream. Then the moment would pass, and he would forget it had happened. Until it happened again and again._

_There seemed to be no one else around him. He was sure he had walked for miles and miles and he still hadn't come across a living creature. But instead there were monstrous trees and stretching meadows and cheerful rivers. And a vast, ever changing sky. _

_He always walked towards the horizon, as if he believed someone would be waiting for him where the sky met the earth. He didn't know what. And he didn't know when he would reach it._

_For he was lonely here. There was no one to talk to, no one to even look at. He yearned for company, for anyone at all. But most of all, he yearned for her._

_It felt all wrong, being somewhere without her. He felt hollowness in his chest, an emptiness that would not go away. It was painful. It was unnerving. It was the only memory he could hold on to. The feel of her lips upon his. While her face and her voice faded from his mind despite his efforts, he still clung desperately to that one beautiful and pure memory. He didn't know who she was. And that frightened him._

_He settled down in a peaceful meadow, as subconsciously he knew he should rest at night. But he wasn't tired. He simply did it out of habit. And it was such a gorgeous starry sky. He had never seen such beautiful stars... Or maybe he had. He struggled to grasp the elusive, taunting memories. But they slipped through his fingers like sand._

_He sat in the welcoming grass, breathing in the sweet air. It felt odd to him, to just be sitting in the meadow, with no real purpose. His mind was suddenly attacked with an onslaught of questions. Where was he? Why was he here? Who was he?_

_Then a noise floated over the grass and seeped into his ears. It was a harsh, foreign noise that had no business in this quiet, peaceful place. He struggled to put a name to the sound. Then he recognized it. Crying._

_It upset him for some reason, and again he became frustrated by the fact that he didn't know why. He clenched his fists and frowned, but still, he couldn't place it. Why did this ugly noise upset him?_

_He lay in the grass for a long time, listening to the crying that seemed to echo from across a distant land. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped, and he was left to ponder the origin and the meaning of the sound._

He didn't know when he shut his eyes to that beautiful, but lonely, place. He didn't know why he had closed his eyes to begin with. But when he opened them again, he was assaulted by a blinding white light. His eyes floundered, trying to adjust. He slowly became aware of the pain all over his body. The pain seemed to be muted as he fought to move his limbs, which seemed unnaturally heavy.

He blinked rapidly, and the world became clearer and clearer. A sterile white room and a hard, coarse bed. A hospital. And a cold silence, as if he was in the ward for the dying.

He could move slightly, just little things, like twitching his nose and drumming his fingers upon the bed. He felt a growing impatience with his reluctant body. He needed to get up, he needed to go somewhere. But his body didn't respond, and instead, he turned his thoughts to her.

Because he remembered everything now. It scared him that he was so lost in that other world, that there may have been the possibility that he would have roamed those meadows for the rest of eternity. That he would never have seen her face again, that he would never have even remembered who she was and that he loved her. It frightened him. And, for once, he was glad to feel the cool tears of relief falling down his cheeks.

He rested for a long time, staring up at the white ceiling and following the small cracks racing about. He found he could turn his head, and so he looked at the door, imploring it to open so that he could be assured he was not alone. Slowly the feeling came back to his body, but the muted pain hindered any sudden, jerky movements. He pulled himself up carefully, but was held back by the various wires and cords attached to him.

With shaking hands, he pulled the restraining lines from his body, not even acknowledging the feeble twinges of pain and discomfort. He sat up on the bed and found himself panting from the small exertion. It gave him a strong feeling of annoyance that he could not even complete rudimentary tasks like sitting up on the bed.

He pushed himself off of the hospital bed and stood. His legs shook madly underneath him, and he was forced to grab the bed to keep himself from collapsing. He could feel the strength draining rapidly from his muscles as he struggled to take a few steps. By the door, he slumped over, leaning on the hard wall for support. But the view from the tiny window made him stand up again, invigorating him and filling his body with a frightening urgency.

Outside of his room was a narrow, white corridor, empty, save for a single chair across from his door. She was curled up in the hard chair, her knees up against her chest and her arms wrapped around them. His eyes narrowed in on her collarbone, so prominently jutting out of her chest, and the alarming slant of her pronounced cheekbones. Perhaps he had been asleep to long. Perhaps she had always looked so skeletal and fragile.

He fumbled with the doorknob, shame weakly coloring his face as he found it difficult to push open a simple slab of wood on hinges. She stirred at the sound of the creaking door, and her eyes fluttered open. She rubbed her fists into her eyes like a tired child would, and sat up in the chair.

"Clint?" her voice was hoarse and cracked from hours of disuse. She stared at him for a long time. Then the tears cascaded down her too thin cheeks. Tears of joy, tears of fear, tears of anxiety. He knelt by her and reached out to stroke her face. She fell into his arms, her tears soaking through the fabric of his hospital gown. His name rolled incoherently of off her tongue as they embraced in the hallway of the hospital.

"I love you," she said finally, dipping into the comfortable silence that had formed after a while. "I love you, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry for what I did..." He pressed her harder into his chest.

"I love you, Tasha," he said simply, letting his body convey his forgiveness and his complete and total devotion to her. He could, perhaps, have scolded her for running away from him, for not letting him in completely. He could have helped her, he could have saved her. But in that moment, he just held her in his arms and breathed in her presence. Finally, he stood, pulling her up with him. Her sharp eye caught the grimace of pain that shot across his face at the action.

"You're still hurt," she mumbled. "We should get you into bed..." She gestured weakly to the door as he shook his head and held her tighter.

"I'm fine. What about you, Tasha? You're so pale, so thin," He turned her face gently up to look at him as she cast her eyes down, ashamed. She could, perhaps, have told him that while he lay dying, while there was no doubt that he would not last the night, the food had turned to ash in her mouth, and she could not eat. She could, perhaps, have told him that she had not slept through one night, as the nightmares were too terrible and real for her to bear. But instead she hung her head and did not look at him.

"I was just so worried…So worried that I was going to lose you," she blinked tears out of her eyes as she buried her face into his shoulder, breathing in his scent, a scent she believed she would never have breathed in again.

"I would never leave you, Tasha. Never," he gently held her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the clear tears.

The stars were silent that night. The wind rustled the mournful grass in the empty meadows. The sky turned cold, so different from the peaceful warmth that had occupied the land when he slept there. He would return there one day. And perhaps that day was coming soon. But if he did return to that strange land, she would join him without a moment's hesitation.

Because she loved him. Because she would follow him to the ends of this earth and back. Because she would endure the flames of hell for him, because she would search for the peace and tranquility of heaven for him. And he would do the same for her. She would never leave his side. Because she loved him, and he loved her.

And she was still plagued by her memories, her recollections of the terrors that she had inflicted and endured in her short life. She took no pleasure in reliving the horrors over and over again. But he was here now, and he would help her.

That, she was sure of.

**Again, Thank you all so much! I was toying with the idea of a prequel...or maybe just a completely different story. What do you think? Reviews make my day. THANKS SO MUCH!**

**Throughtherye **


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